


Practically an Avenger

by orphan_account



Category: Captain America (Movies), Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Young Avengers
Genre: Domestic, Gen, Lots of platonic feels, M/M, POV Third Person Kate Bishop, Reminiscing, Steve Rogers and the Media, Vigilantism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-15
Updated: 2014-09-15
Packaged: 2018-02-16 11:26:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2267988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The second coolest thing about being friends with an Avenger is that you get to use the Avengers Discount when you’re standing in line with said Avenger at Starbucks. </p><p>The third coolest thing about being friends with an Avenger is that you can bribe said Avenger to let you interview <i>Captain Futzing America</i> himself for your college term paper, and if that doesn’t impress Kate Bishop’s hardass European History professor even a <i>little</i> bit, she doesn’t know what will.</p><p>OR: Nineteen year old Kate Bishop is practically an Avenger, but all she wants to do is prove she should be taken seriously. She’s heard the story of Captain America over and over in history class, in documentaries, and on every Fourth of July. Thing is, she hadn’t quite wrapped her mind around how young Steve Rogers must have been when he first took up the shield, until he’s standing right in front of her in sweatpants and messy hair and offers to conduct their meeting over pancakes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Practically an Avenger

**Author's Note:**

> This is something that’s been bouncing around my head for a while, I finally just had to write it down on paper. Please note, this is primarily movie canon with some of my imperfect knowledge of comic canon mixed in. There were some divergences in trying to fit Kate into the established movie world, mainly reconciling movie!Steve with comic!Steve’s antagonistic relationship with the Young Avengers, but hopefully this reads pretty smoothly.

The second coolest thing about being friends with an Avenger is that you get to use the Avengers Discount when you’re standing in line with said Avenger at Starbucks. Sure, Kate Bishop’s already loaded, but she could appreciate three-fifty off a caramel macchiato as much as the next person. 

She wonders, idly, if pulling the Practically-an-Avenger line herself at any participating Starbucks will net similar results.

Clint whips out his Avengers ID card in all its holographic glory for the cashier, and Kate’s thoughts slip briefly into the realm of teen delinquency as she weighs the pros and cons of reproducing a fake. On one hand, it would probably be about as illegal as walking around New York City with a fake police badge and a gun shouting _WEE WOO WEE WOO WEE WOO._ On the other hand, just a quick flash of that baby would easily legitimize her particular brand of vigilante justice to any goon who dared underestimate Kate Bishop.

Plus, three-fifty! Off her macchiato!

“Don’t even think about it, Kate-and-Barrel,” Clint says, pocketing the card, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “More trouble than it’s worth. Not exactly gonna put you in the good graces of Pepper Potts if she’s gotta explain to the press why we compromised everybody’s safety and let a bunch of kids run around playing superhero with fake IDs and blah blah blah. It’ll be a mess.”

“Because you’re always so good at staying squeaky clean,” Kate says, peering over at him through her sunglasses. Because if Clint’s gonna call her out, she’s gonna call him out right back.

It’s a familiar rhythm, by now. That’s what Clint’s always liked about Kate, she thinks. In the wake of the Avengers media blitz, the team’s all had their fair share of young fans coming up to them, worshipping them like movie stars, believing with all their hearts that their idols who saved the world from imminent extraterrestrial destruction could do no wrong, and all but begging to be the kid sidekicks to the Earth’s Mightiest Heroes.

And then there was Kate. There were also Kate’s friends. But Kate knew, first hand, what a human disaster Clint Barton could be, and Clint likes Kate because she’s not afraid to say it to his face.

“As predictably self-righteous as this sounds,” Clint continues, waving her off, the ace bandage on his arm not going unnoticed, “we don’t take the Avenger title lightly. S’why we don’t hand these out to just anybody.” 

The weird Hawkeye Squared Psychic Connection they seemed to share was an A+ asset in battle, but plummeted to an F- in usefulness in those rare moments Clint Barton read exactly what Kate was thinking and then suddenly decided to take the whole mentor-student situation seriously and preach the necessity of duty, responsibility, and the American Way. Or something.

Like, really, of all the times the man chooses to channel the voice of Captain America, it’s the times when he’s standing banally to the side of a Starbucks on a Sunday morning waiting for his stupid latte to brew.

“Right,” Kate answers, lamely. And after a beat, “But you know, I’m—“

“— _practically_ an Avenger. I know, Katie-Kate. I know.”

Clint leans against the wall and that word—“ _PRACTICALLY”—_ hangs heavy between them. And Kate knows, she knows Clint Barton would trust her— _has_ trusted her—with his life. And she knows he respects the hell out of her, aware of the seven hundred ways she could subdue a guy ten times bigger than her in three seconds flat, aware of just how damn good she is with a bow and arrow, like ‘bona fide prodigy’ level good. She knows he _must_ know what a lucky sonuvabitch he is to have her around to pick up the pieces when he’s messed up so badly not even Natasha’d give him the time of day. But…

There’s always that unspoken “but,” isn’t there? 

“Hawkeye?” the barista calls out, and on instinct, both Kate and Clint look up. It’s a latte, and Kate catches herself before she makes a move towards the counter, saving face by pretending to adjust her messenger bag strap. Inside, she kicks herself because _of course_ the barista meant Clint. Of course.

The barista’s a gangly kind of girl, probably a year or two into college, and her apron is kind of crooked, but she hands Clint his drink and adds, barely keeping the awe in her voice in check, “By the way, thanks a ton for your service. Can’t believe I’m serving coffee to the _real_ Hawkeye—you helped my cousin off a bus during that alien invasion thing a couple years back.”

Clint nods solemnly, looking very official behind purple sunglasses, and tips her a dollar. Kate swipes her drink off the bar a little too fast, and they head out the door towards Avengers Tower. Her cup reads ‘Hawkeye’, but it’s a hollow victory when she knows the barista was probably referring to Clint Barton, the ‘ _real_ Hawkeye,’ here too.

 

•••

 

See, the third coolest thing about being friends with an Avenger is that you can bribe said Avenger to let you interview _Captain Futzing America_ himself for your college term paper, and if that doesn’t impress Kate’s hardass European History professor even a _little_ bit, she doesn’t know what will.

‘Cause, like, come on. It’s _Captain America_. There is a gigantic art installation dedicated to him in the history building of her campus. Who isn’t a little bit in love with him?

So, Kate does the professional thing when they get to Avengers Tower. She shoves the Starbucks cup into the lobby recycling bin with a force only just a hair excessive (she notes proudly), and then banishes all thoughts irrelevant to this appointment into the farthest corners of her brain because dammit she’s been rehearsing this conversation over and over for the past three weeks and she is not about to throw all that away to sound like an inarticulate fool in front of Captain Steven Grant Rogers.

Because, let’s be honest, Kate has done some pretty foolish things in her life. Her whole solo stint in LA had been an exercise in how far her stupidity could actually stretch. As it turns out: pretty far. Or at least, far enough to include 1) getting ambushed the first day and having all her stuff stolen 2) trying (and failing) to suavely apprehend a criminal suspect by knocking on his door without any tact, grace, or semblance of a decent plan 3) attempting to solicit clients by advertising her heroic services on a crummy flier. 

No, no. Credit where credit is due: it was actually a super _sweet_ flier. 

It was Captain Steve Rogers, she thinks as she rides up the elevator with Clint, Captain America himself who bestowed the codename Hawkeye onto her in the first place.

There was no way she was giving him a reason to take it back. 

Not that he would ever take it back, anyway. Like. You couldn’t just… _do_ that. Right? 

See, Clint, after seeing her shoot down a purse-stealing thug in Central Park, had taken Kate in on a gut feeling. (A similar gut feeling, he’d later confide to her, to the one that had once led him to put his bow down and recruit Natasha Romanoff.)

And that was how one day instead of heading straight to headquarters after practice, she wound up standing in the Avengers’ private gym in her plaid school uniform and high socks, shooting arrows in front of none other than Clint Barton. 

(She had texted Cassie to let her know where she was and that she’d be late. Her phone had blown up seconds later with a choice selection of disbelieving texts from the rest of the crew. As it turns out, in this day and age, there are a multitude of ways to express the sentiment of, “HOLY SHIT” in a fun assortment of emoticons, keyboard smashes, and an infinite number of exclamation points.)

“Looks like you’ve got yourself another Hawkeye there, Clint” Steve had said from the corner of the gym, where he stood by the punching bags. It sounded like an off-the-cuff remark but then it wasn’t, because this was Captain America and Kate knew for a fact that Captain America meant every word that ever came out of this mouth. 

“Guess I do,” Clint had agreed before turning back to a slack-jawed Kate. “Her stance could use some work though. How ‘bout it, Hawkeye?”

She knows it’s informal. She knows it’s a little more than a nickname. But when Kate dies and she sees her life flash before her eyes, she knows that that single minute is going to stand among the greatest moments of her entire existence.

Then, comes the _ding!_ of the elevator. The cool voice of JARVIS informs them they’ve arrived at their floor, and Kate snaps out of it. She hastily smoothes out her skirt, adjusts her hair band, and steps out of the elevator into the Avengers Common Area. The room is empty, though the boozy and popcorn-y remains of what might have been an Avengers Movie Night litter the scene.

“Captain Rogers will be here shortly,” JARVIS informs her. “Please forgive the mess. Our cleaning bots are currently undergoing repairs after the duress of last evening’s events.”

“Pixar Movie Night” Clint says, rubbing the back of his neck, “WALL•E. We got a little emotionally invested. Thought we could get ‘em to…do the dance.”

The thing Kate appreciates about Clint is that he easily could have lied about the aforementioned “duress,” made up some cool story about an intergalactic being coming down to earth in an apocalyptic tornado of slime—the cleaning bots acting as the team’s last hope in the line of defense. Hell, he could have just not said anything at all. 

But Kate has since learned to read Clint Barton pretty fluently (almost as well as Natasha, she thinks) and if she didn’t know better, Clint had just tossed her a quick reminder that Captain America was a pretty normal guy who had fun movie nights with his friends sometimes, and she was gonna be perfectly fine, Katie-Kate. Chill.

Times like these, she really was thankful for that freaky Hawkeye Connection they shared.

Clint places a hand on her shoulder, before pressing the DOWN button for the elevator. “I’m heading to the gym,” he says. “Pick you up in an hour or two?”

Kate does something like a halfhearted salute, “Eye eye, Hawkguy.”

“You’ve got this, Hawkeye,” Clint says before the elevator doors slide closed.

It doesn’t take long before Kate hears a door open off to the side, and the patter of a confident stride heading towards her. Captain Rogers, in a simple white shirt and sweatpants, steps into a pile of stale popcorn, then slowly takes in the not-so-ideal state of the rest of the Common Area. 

Kate feels herself wanting to assure him it was TOTALLY-like-this-when-she-got-here-don’t-look-at-me!, before kicking herself and thinking well, _duh_ , he lives here, of course he knows that. She hopes she’s managed a smooth transition from her deer in the headlights stare to an expression of cool, calm professionalism. 

Then, Captain Rogers looks right at her and says, “You up for breakfast, Miss Bishop? Just got through with a run, and I’m gonna be honest—I’m real hungry.” 

And as though Kate needs anymore convincing, he adds, shrugging, “I make a pretty mean flapjack.”

He grins a crooked grin and then holds out his massive palm for a shake. 

Kate had imagined a lot of ways this meeting might go. Like, she’s met him before a couple times in the past, so she’s had a pretty good idea on how things might work out. In none of these scenarios did Captain America actually offer to make her pancakes. _Pancakes!_ She feels her brain fizzle out trying to compute this unprecedented turn of events, and she can practically hear the record scratch in her head, fighting the urge to whip her face towards camera like Jim from _The Office_ because there is no way this is real life right now. 

Instead she says, “I—uh…it’s. It’s Kate. I’m Kate. Katherine. Actually. You can call me Kate,” grabbing his hand about a half second too late for the handshake to feel natural. “I…I love pancakes!” she blurts out as an after thought, and then immediately decides when she gets home she is going to punch herself in the face. Repeatedly. 

God, Tommy will never let her live this down.

If Steve notices her stunning inarticulacy, he’s too polite to say anything. 

“Steve Rogers,” he says, giving her hand a firm shake, “Steven, actually. But you can call me Steve.”

She still doesn’t quite believe this is real until the pancakes are right in front of her. It’s Sunday morning and somehow Kate Bishop is on Captain America’s private floor sitting at his private kitchen table with his private fork and his private knife and his private bottle of syrup eating the private pancakes he made on his private pan on his private stove in his private kitchen. In his _private floor_. 

Okay. The fourth coolest thing about being friends with an Avenger, Kate decides, is having access to restricted spaces within the Avengers Tower (after said Avenger signs you in and gets you through security of course.) I mean, she’d had breakfast in Clint’s shitty Brooklyn apartment countless times by now, but having breakfast served by the legend, singled out by her entire ninth grade AP Global classroom as Hottest Historical Figure of All Time—now, that was pretty novel. 

And Kate swears she needs to edit his Wikipedia page ASAP and list _makes a mean flapjack_ under Superhuman Abilities and source _Katherine Bishop’s taste buds_ because these rest among the meanest flapjacks she’s ever tasted. 

But she’s wasted too many minutes now on the pure novelty of seeing Captain America scarf down his pancakes as quickly as Billy, Teddy, and Eli on a rough day, so she shakes herself out of it, and then gets back to business. 

“So, I heard from Clint that you’ve got some kind of assignment I might be able to help you with.” Steve says, and he sits up straighter, takes his elbows off the table, and now he’s all business too. 

“Okay, well I don’t know how much he’s told you,” Kate says, after clearing her throat and grabbing her folder of notes, “But I’m taking this history course at NYU right now and—“

There’s some shuffling coming from the room on the left and Kate, mid-sentence, glances over Steve’s dorito shoulders. There, smack in her centerline of vision, Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes leans casually against the doorframe in an open button-down plaid shirt and a messy bun.

Let’s be honest. Fifth coolest thing about being friends with an Avenger: You inevitably bump into said Avenger’s circle of friends when you’re visiting the Tower and said circle of friends is, uh. Very easy on the eyes. 

“I smell pancakes. Are there pancakes? Please tell me there are pancakes,” Bucky says, annoyingly adorable, rubbing an eye. 

Kate feels like this must be some cosmic reward received about four years too late because, while she had wholeheartedly agreed with her ninth grade AP Global class’ assessment of Steve Rogers and his apple pie good looks, her vote for Hottest Historical Figure of All Time went to Bucky Barnes and the rakish charm that pulsed through every remaining black-and-white photo of him. 

It wasn’t a crime to just _look_ and admire from afar, after all. She knew he was off the market. She had seen the announcement on TV, same as everyone else. They had the news on at headquarters that day. Billy and Teddy had cried and Kate saw first hand the impact of what this meant, _how much_ this meant to the world and, well, when Steve Rogers left the podium with impossible superhuman aplomb hand in hand with none other than Bucky Barnes…well, she had cried too.

“Mornin’” and Bucky saunters over lazily and smacks a kiss right on Steve’s cheek, and man, Kate’s tempted to add _conspicuous blusher_ to Steve’s list of Superhuman Abilities now too. It’s sweet, and it calls to mind all the times Clint’s complained about his accidental run-ins playing witness to geriatric PDA around the tower. Bucky grabs the fork right out of Steve’s hands and pops a syrup-covered bite of pancake into his mouth.

Steve throws Bucky a look that smacks entirely of, “We have company. Control yourself,” and gives him a firm shove. But Kate knows they’re all right because Steve’s touch lingers, his hand gently grazing Bucky’s right arm for half an extra second, and he says with a fond smile, “There’s more near the stove.”

Bucky tears away and strides towards the food. “She that kid who hangs around Barton?” he calls out.

“Hey, I don’t hang around Barton,” Kate says, indignant. “Barton hangs around me.”

Bucky barks out a laugh, pulling a milk carton out of the fridge. “I like her.”

“Kate,” Steve says, almost sheepishly, “You know Bucky.”

“Good to meet you, Bucky,” Kate says with remarkable control. She’s almost tempted to high five herself. 

“Dunno why you’d be here to interview this big lug,” Bucky says, pouring himself a glass, “Big mouth’s always gettin’ everybody into trouble.” 

Kate’s well aware. She doesn’t remember how many times her team has replayed that YouTube video entitled _CAPTAIN AMERICA GIVES FOX NEWS THE ULTIMATE VERBAL SMACKDOWN OF JUSTICE_ documenting that one time some idiot reporter lacked the foresight to do her research on Captain Rogers before asking him to weigh in on his opinion on the addition of _under God_ to the Pledge of Allegiance.

But the Captain America that she had seen countless times on YouTube, dressed to the nines in his uniform and shield, glaring at the news anchor with the steely fury of a man on a mission, somehow seemed… different from the dude tilting his chair back in front of her, wearing sweats with a syrup stain and throwing a roll of bread at the back of his boyfriend’s messy bedhead. 

And it hits her. 

(A _thought_. Not the roll.) 

Because Captain America—really, Steve Rogers—is not much older than she is. Technically speaking. She had read in the textbooks how he’d died at age 26, but somehow she had never understood the gravity of what that meant. Steve Rogers has had to carry the fate of the world on his shoulders a million times over before reaching the age of thirty. 

She thinks, while there’s some part of him that will always be Captain America, the war hero, the super hero, the Avenger, there’s this other part of him that’s just a twenty-something year old kid who wants to laugh at corny jokes, and watch silly movies, and wants to grab a burger and a milk shake with his buddies and—and just wants to, like… _kiss_ his boyfriend on a lazy Sunday morning like any other person.

And she thinks, while she watches Bucky Barnes say, “Oh that’s how it is?” then use his metal arm to throw the roll with a cartoonishly disproportionate level of speed and accuracy right back at Steve Rogers. And as she watches Steve Rogers duck under the table and release a surprised yelp that should never come out of a man with super soldier reflexes, she thinks…if Captain America is really this much of a dork when he’s sitting at home, then what’s stopping the rest of us dorks from becoming heroes too? 

And it hits her again. (Another thought. Still not the roll.) And it might be foolish and reckless and a little bit crazy but she’d be kicking herself for all eternity if she didn’t take the chance. Before she can stop herself, she flips past the pages of interview questions she’s prepared and straight to the back of her folder. She whips out the spare résumé she keeps just in case, meets Steve Rogers’ eyes just as he emerges from under the table with her fierce blue stare, and announces clear as a bell: 

“I’m here to apply for an Avengers ID card.”

It’s the most confident statement she’s made in the course of this entire morning; the saccharine cadences of a girl actively trying to remain as inoffensive as possible abruptly stripped away.

She deftly slides her résumé, a crisp sheet of purple filled top to bottom with every style of combat she’s certified in, every weapon she’s ever mastered, across the table. The last line, a bold _pièce de résistance_ , the incontrovertible evidence to back up her merit:

 _For Reference of Character contact Clint Barton, Codename Hawkeye_. _Ask him about Hawkeye_. 

And still for all of that, Steve Rogers’ smile fades. He takes a long breath and gazes at length at the purple sheet on the table. It’s all of a sudden quiet in the room, an awkward chill replacing the warmth she felt just a moment ago but Kate doesn’t care. Her eyes don’t leave Steve’s face for a second. Steve’s mouth twists into an apologetic grimace, but Steve Rogers has never backed down from anything and if he has to deliver bad news, he has to deliver bad news. He looks her straight in the eye and says, in the stern tones Kate remembers from every documentary she’s ever seen on Captain America: 

“I can’t authorize that, Kate.”

“Why?” Kate says, without hesitation. It’s more a demand than a question, and she’s sure there’s some kind of karmic penalty for sassing Captain America but she’s too caught up in the adrenaline of the moment to care right now. “You’re Captain America. You literally _lead_ the Avengers. You can authorize everything.”

“Kate,” he says, and he’s so damn earnest about it, trying to find the words to let her down in the gentlest way possible. “I know you’ve been doing great work with Clint. But, being an Avenger…that’s a whole other ballpark of responsibility. It’s just not safe for someone your age.” 

“Oh ‘cause a twenty-six year old punk breaking all the rules and barreling straight into a secret Nazi base armed only with a toy shield and a plastic helmet was the absolute _essence_ of safety _,_ Stevie,” scoffs a third voice and Kate jumps because she forgot that Bucky was still in the kitchen, “You’re _right_ , that was one hundred percent not stupid at all.”

Kate doesn’t want to be the first to break the stare down, but she can’t help it after a line like that. She watches Bucky pull up a chair. He takes one look at Kate’s résumé and puffs out an appreciative whistle. “Marksman, huh? How good’s your shot?”

“Buck,” Steve starts. The warning in his voice is not lost on Kate. 

“Steve, really?” Bucky says, unimpressed, “You. You of all people?” 

“What does he mean?” Kate says, narrowing her eyes, “You, _Captain America_ , broke the rules to storm the base? I mean, I was under the impression you were selected to lead an authorized solo mission. That’s what every history textbook I’ve ever had said anyway.” 

“Doll, every history textbook you’ve ever had forgot to mention the part where Steve Rogers is actually the most reckless fucking idiot to have ever walked the Earth.”

“Buck. That was different. The country was at war.” He grabs for something under the table and Kate knows from watching Billy give Teddy that same protective glance, that its Bucky’s hand. “You’re still young, Kate.” 

“Eighteen year olds can join the army. They’re old enough to make the choice,” Kate replies because there’s no way, no way she’s letting him pull the age card on her now. 

There’s something dark in Steve’s voice when he turns back to Kate and says, “Kate. I don’t regret my choices, but I’m telling you as someone who’s seen a lot of things in battle that no one should ever need to put themselves through. Live your life. Cherish these moments. Don’t put yourself in the line of fire without a good reason.” 

“I have a good reason,” Kate says, and there’s something dark in her voice too. 

“My answer is no.” He looks tired and world-weary and something that might be sympathy in his eyes, but his tone is resolute. Final. “I’ll call Clint to pick you up.”

He hands her back her résumé and something cracks in her. 

She’s not leaving without getting the last word in. 

And so she says it. And it’s not the voice of a little girl begging to play superhero with the big shots, but it’s another thing entirely and instinctively Kate knows it’s not going away even if she has to come back to this Tower and apply five times over. 

Because here’s the thing: 

 _The_ absolute, number one coolest thing about being friends with an Avenger is that sometimes, but only sometimes, said Avenger will take you along on his missions and you’ll have helped to save a hundred people and you’ll feel useful and _good_ and like maybe you’ve changed someone’s life, and sure, yeah, maybe you have something to prove too, but the truth is no one in the world should ever, _ever_ have to go through what you’ve gone through and you are going to stop at nothing to make sure no one ever has to be thrust into that dark, dark place against their will again. And even though you and your friends can form a vigilante justice club in your father’s abandoned warehouse and train off whatever you learn from Google and fight in hypotheticals and listen in on police radio reports to get in the know, being friends with an Avenger puts you in the center of all the action twenty times more quickly. 

But the limitation to being friends with an Avenger is just that. You’re friends with an Avenger. 

You’re practically an Avenger.

In her final statement, her voice rings with the weight of it all in bright hope and bitter frustration. She says:

“Just give me a chance.”

There’s a soft intake of breath from Bucky, which must be a big deal because Kate knows a little bit about what happened to him and she’s sure that involuntary verbal reactions had been trained out of him a long, long time ago. 

She looks at Steve to gauge a reaction and she’s surprised to see that the unyielding gaze that had been glaring her down a second ago has been replaced by a far off, thousand yard stare. 

And then, again, that look in his eyes is slowly replaced by something soft and fond, “You’re not the type to give up so easily, are you?” 

So Kate gives a small smile and says, “What can I say? I’m a terminal do-gooder.”

 

•••

 

Kate leaves the Avengers Tower and she doesn’t have any relevant information she can use for her history paper. Nor does she have an Avengers ID card.

But she’s got a tummy full of pancakes, a letter of recommendation written by Steve Rogers himself, and an evaluation scheduled with Maria Hill at SHIELD (or whatever’s left of it) next week. 

When Clint comes to pick her up, Steve, Bucky, and Kate meet him at the door.

“I’d consider some new codenames, Barton,” Bucky says, “Hawk _guy_ ’s got a pretty nice ring to it.”

“Looks like you’ve found yourself a better Hawkeye than you,” Steve says, with a smile and a wink.

Kate grins and punches Clint in the arm. If his raised eyebrow is any indication, the freaky Hawkeye psychic connection is definitely ticking off the charts, but she’s got a whole week to fill him in. 

“Come on, Hawkguy. Starbucks. My treat.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
